Chapter IV

Again she stands near the altar—this time the sacred spot where hangs the symbolic shield, which, being struck, gives forth the sound of thunder. None but Norma may raise this dreaded warning—none.

As she stood near the altar, she thought, would Adalgisa be successful? Would he return to her, repentant and loving? And as she asked herself these questions, behold the sun was overcast, and thunder muttered in the air.

Suddenly Clotilda ran in; her features had told her message of dismay—Adalgisa had wept and prayed in vain.

As she stood there, her first thought was her madness in letting the virgin go; that she could have been so weak as to let him look upon her. Why—why if she prayed and knelt to him, she was but more beautiful, and more surely drew his love upon her. Then she thought that Adalgisa had planned the appeal to the Roman but to escape from her fury. Then suddenly she relents, for the messenger tells how Roman honor has overcome temptation. How the herald has been held sacred, and a free passage given her back to the sacred forest. Her face softens as Clotilda tells how the virgin humbly prays that she may take the vows, and dedicate herself to the service of the Temple. And now again her face is angered; ’tis at the last news the messenger has brought, that Pollione has vowed to tear Adalgisa from the very Temple—from the very altar.

“Let the blood of the base Romans flow,” she cried. Then quickly she turned to the golden shield, the sound of which emulated the rolling thunder, and beat on it three times.

Then arose the sacred answering cry of the Druids, and from all sides came they running towards the sound—masses on masses—their weapons in their hands. On they came—in they rushed, till the whole temple was filled—a forest of angry steel ready to bathe in Roman blood.

“War!” she cried—“extermination—slaughter! Sing ye the hymn of battle.”

Up rose the sacred hymn—high-sounding amidst the waving oaks—floating away on the winds, and threatening the southern invaders. Louder and louder spread the sacred war cry—death, destruction, extermination!—“Let the Romans fall! Let their legions be mown down like grass!—Let the wings of their eagles strike the ground. May our god descend on the rays of the sun to bless and rejoice in the triumph of his faithful children.”

Then she trembles in her passion as she sees the high priest, her own father, prepare to ask the question she knows that he must ask.

“And the victim?”

The victim! When the stern, savage Druids warred, they called for a human victim, as a sacrifice to their gods—as an offering and atonement for their sins—as a sacrifice worthy to propitiate their gods to grant them victory.

“And the victim?”

Slowly she replies:—“The terrible altar never lacks a victim!”

Suddenly rose loud cries of anger; and through the thick throng of worshippers there ran several armed Gauls, bearing in their midst a man dressed in Roman garments.

“A Roman found in the sacred temple.”

Who was this man—this Roman? She, Norma, trembled as she saw him; and she whispered the word “Pollione!”

There was a suppressed cry of joy amongst the Druids—their gods had sent this sacrifice—this Roman, their enemy, who had dared to enter the sacred forest.

“Take thou the sacred sword and slay him.”

He who spoke was Oroveso; she who heard—she who stretched forth her hand for the weapon—was Norma.

And as she took the sword, the Druids saw the Roman start and turn pale, and they said amongst themselves that he was afraid.

Slowly she came down from the altar, the shining weapon in her hand. Slowly she came near him—not a pitying look upon her face. Slowly she lifted the sword against him, as he raised his arm to receive the blow. And then—then she was weak; and she, the high priestess, let fall the point of the sacred weapon from before the enemy and the victim. In a mighty voice they called forth—“Slay him!”

But she said she must question him, and bade them retire for a little space.

Slowly and angrily they departed, and left her standing alone with him in the Temple.

“So at last thou art in my power. There is no hope for thee.”

“I do not fear thee.”

“Now swear—swear that from this hour thou wilt think no more of Adalgisa, and I will give thee life, and thou shalt go from before mine eyes.”

“I will not swear.”

“Dost thou know that my rage is terrible?”

“I fear not thy rage.”

“And thy children?”

As she spoke he trembled, and with a cry of joy she cried out that he feared her at last.

“Spare them—spare them. Let me die alone.”

“Thee alone?—all the Romans who are in Gaul shall die, and even Adalgisa shall perish in the flames.”

“Pity!—pity!”

“What? Canst thou ask pity of Norma? Ah! she knows no more what pity is. See how I sate myself—how I glory in thy fear for her, and for yourself! Thou shalt suffer, as I have suffered.”

Then she struck the sacred shield once more, and again the priests and the armed men came swarming to the Temple.

“Behold” she cried, “I have found another victim to your rage. A priestess forsworn; who hath forsworn her vows; who hath betrayed her country; who hath angered the god of her people!”

With one vast shout they asked for her name.

“Build the pile,” she said.

Again they cried out for the name of the accursed.

Then over her heart swept a flood of pity for the maiden she was about to denounce. “What right had she, a guilty wretch, to revenge herself upon an innocent creature? Had not Adalgisa pitied her? had she done her any wrong? Could the poor girl save herself from loving the traitor? Had not she herself, she, Norma, fallen?”

As she hesitated, the crowd about her again demanded the offender’s name.

Yet she hesitated. Then, turning to the trembling Roman, who each moment feared to hear her name the name of Adalgisa, the high priestess raised her right hand to her head, took from it the holy wreath, worn as the badge of purity; bent low her head, and said, “I—I am that guilty one!” So her better nature had conquered. All pride and anger gone! In her rage she would have denounced Adalgisa; but her sense of justice triumphed, and she denounced herself.

With a world of shame and repentance seething within him, the Roman cried, “No! believe her not, she speaketh knowing not what she sayeth!”

Still hiding her face, she said, “Norma speaketh the shameful truth!” And she saw her white-headed father draw away, degraded, from his brethren.

She crept up to her husband, and in her looks she told him what a loving wife he had destroyed. Then she whispered it was a destiny that they should die together, their ashes mingling on the same pile, and the same winds scatter them abroad.

All his old love for her returned in this sublime moment. Joy—a dying joy for her filled all his soul. She saw him look upon her as of old, with loving eyes, though they were now filled with pitying tears. “Pardon!” he cried—the most blessed words she could hear; for women will die that they may forgive men; “Pardon!”

But ere she could speak, her father crept up to her, and whispered that she had spoken falsely—that she was not so fallen—that she was yet pure. Then aloud he cried, “If the unyielding god who sees us holds back his angry thunder thou art guiltless!” Again he whispered, “Norma—my daughter—thou art guiltless.”

What is it that she says which makes him start in horror? What is it that makes the blood redden his aged forehead? She has told him of her children—her living children.

He draws his robe from her, as though pollution were in her touch. His trembling feet bear him from her—his daughter—the once proud, magnificent high priestess.

But she follows him—prays to him to save them. Still his head is erect, and his eyes are tearless. She is his own flesh and blood. She bids him think of her own early days; she hoarsely cries that in a few minutes she shall be dead, and again she prays him to seek her children, who are with Clotilda, and to watch over them. Gradually his head falls lower and lower on his breast. At last, without fear of pollution, he lays his hand upon her head, and promises to fulfil her last desire.

The angry priests, muttering together, draw near—fall upon her, fling over her the black veil of death, and bear her away to the burning pile.

High blaze the flames, lapping about her—falls on the body of the slain husband the flickering red light—the Roman, who has died, pierced by scores of wounds.

The victim is sacrificed. Let them march on to victory. Their god is appeased! the sin which was amongst them, which has drawn the favor of heaven from them, is purged away by fire. Now, let the Romans fall—let Gaul be free!

High blaze the flames, the red reflexions shimmering from each white-robed priest, from the robes even of her weeping father. Higher and higher till the victim is turned to light ashes for the wind to drift whithersoever it will!